


In Absentia

by arts_and_letters



Series: Redbeard [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, all the feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 06:36:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2955989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arts_and_letters/pseuds/arts_and_letters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone does their best to cope with Sherlock’s absence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Absentia

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to my first ever fanfiction story, “Give My Best to Redbeard.” I would recommend reading that before you read this story, although it's not strictly necessary.

  
What a strange thing loss is. There are some moments where the world is like it always has been. Mycroft Holmes goes about his day, giving orders and instructions, calmly, judiciously—putting out fires, solving crises, and creating new problems. Just another day in the life. 

It’s almost enough to make him forget. 

Because it’s not like Mycroft and Sherlock were in constant contact. Many days would pass without them speaking to each other, so in a way, it’s easy to forget that there is a gaping, Sherlock-shaped hole in Mycroft’s life. 

But then, at the most unpredictable, ill-timed moments, it hits him.

His brother—his baby brother, his Sherlock—is gone. 

And he’s never coming back. 

It’s such a facile statement—of course he’s never coming back. He’s dead 

 _He’s dead he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead_  

(For days after it happened, those words were the only words circulating in his head. An endless, haunting refrain of: _he’s dead._ )  
  
But knowing and feeling are two different things all together. Even though he knows Sherlock is dead, there are so many moments when it doesn’t _feel_ that way. So many times when he reaches for his mobile phone, ready to fire off a text or to dial those very familiar digits only to realize there’s no one on the other end to pick up. 

(He’s continued to pay the bill for Sherlock’s now unused mobile phone. He’s come to associate that number with Sherlock so strongly that the thought of anyone else having it is more than he can bear.)  
  
  
  
  
 

It has been three long months since Sherlock Holmes passed away peacefully in his bed at 221b Baker Street, with his brother by his side.

And as the months have passed, it has become easier to string together moments, minutes, sometimes even hours at a time, where he can go about as if the bottom hasn’t already fallen out of his life. 

But then, something happens.

Sometimes it’s a sound—a word that reminds him of Sherlock— 

 _Tedious_

(Everything was always tedious to Sherlock.) 

 _Boring_

(And all of it was boring too.) 

Other times it’s a smell— 

 _Cigarette smoke_

(It reminds him of their last Christmas together, of furtive smoking at their parents' house.)

_Formaldehyde_

(Sherlock spent so many hours working with corpses and dismembered body parts that he always seemed to carry that vague smell of death and chemicals on his person, long after he showered and changed into new clothes.)

And sometimes it’s just a funny conversation or a particularly striking act of stupidity that makes Mycroft want to pick up the phone and call his little brother, but as he reaches for his mobile, it hits him— 

 _He’s gone and he’s never coming back._  

Now, three months in, he can go hours at a time without remembering that simple, devastating fact, but then a switch flips and it hits him, and the world goes from Technicolor to grey all over again.

  

  
 

Even three months in, it still happens every single morning. He opens his eyes, and before he is conscious of anything else, there’s this heavy weight that settles on him, and in those early morning moments, he scans his brain trying to find the reason for the pain and then he remembers— 

 _Sherlock’s dead_

It’s crushing, the weight of that realization. 

But even worse than that are the mornings when he wakes up from a dream—a dream where Sherlock is alive and well and happy—and then he’s forced to come back to a reality without Sherlock, and it’s like losing his brother all over again. 

On mornings like that, nothing stops the tears from coming.

    

  
 

 _I’m not lonely, Sherlock_  

That’s what he said to his brother, shortly after Sherlock came back to life.

(The first time, the only time.)

It was the truth, at the time. Or at least he had believed it was. 

 _How would you know?_  

That was the question—the challenge—that Sherlock fired back at him.

What Mycroft didn’t say—the answer he could have given but didn’t—was that Mycroft knew because—although he would never admit it—he had felt a small pang of loneliness during his brother’s long absence.  
  
In those intervening months, he pushed through it, chided himself for becoming so sentimental in his old age—and besides, Sherlock would be back, in a year, two years tops. 

But he’s not coming back now.  
  
Sometimes the reality of that hits him, and it takes his breath away.  
  
  
  
  
 

Mycroft had never given much thought to the afterlife, but now he frequently finds himself wondering, where’s his little brother now? Someone as bright and vibrant as Sherlock—could he simply disappear? Just like that? 

He has always been a man of science, not of faith. He believes in facts and logic, not prayer and miracles. 

But there’s a part of him—small, irrational, foolish—that can’t help but hope for a miracle. 

 

  
  

He’s spent many hours since his brother’s passing thinking about the Fall and their deception, fantasizing about Sherlock walking in through the door alive and well and smiling—and this—the cancer, the sickness, the death—could all be a trick, a harmless little trick.                                                                                                            

But—although he may be one of the most powerful men in the country—even though he has access to all the best resources, an entire standing army—at the end of the day none of it mattered, because none of it was enough to save Sherlock.

And now, none of it is enough to bring him back to life.

That simple fact is the most devastating, painful thing Mycroft has ever had to contend with, because there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to have his brother back again. 

He would give up all his material possessions, his job, his country—anything and everything—if it meant that he could have Sherlock back. 

Even if only for a day.

  
  

 

There are so many things Mycroft would say, if he only had the chance. 

He would tell his brother how much he missed him during those two years of exile, how empty the world was without him. 

He would tell Sherlock how happy he was when they were reunited, how much more vibrant and interesting the world seemed with his brother by his side.

And he would tell Sherlock how empty the world would be once he was gone. He would tell Sherlock how much he would miss him, every minute of every day.

And he would tell his past self to cherish every last moment they had together, because the end would come sooner than either of them could ever imagine. 

More than anything, he wishes he could go back and beg Sherlock to hold on for just a little longer. He would plead for one more day, just one more—and then maybe another and another and another. 

Time. He took it for granted that there would be time to say and do all these things, but time is the one thing that they had so little of.

  

  
 

When he isn’t busy wishing for things that cannot be, he can’t help but wonder: 

Why did this have to happen to them? What cruel twist of fate deigned to give his brother a brain tumor? How could the thing his brother valued the most be the thing that ended his life?

But what haunts him even more is the question: 

Why did Sherlock have to go so soon? Why did Mycroft agree to let him go? Why didn’t he say no, when Sherlock asked him, when he said— 

 _Please, Mycroft, I don’t want to lose my mind, and I don't want to waste away. I don't want to spend my final days in the hospital. Please, when the time comes, help me go in peace._  

It nearly destroyed him to agree to Sherlock’s request, and yet Mycroft said yes, because he didn’t have the heart to say no. 

After all, he would have done anything for his little brother. 

Even when that meant letting him die.  
  
                                                  

**Author's Note:**

> I didn’t initially plan to continue to story, but I was inspired by the positive response that the original story received, and eventually I realized that I had more to add to the story arc. I promise that the rest of the story won’t be quite as depressing, although it will still be very, very sad. After all, Sherlock is dead. (I’m sorry.)
> 
> If you have a moment to leave a comment, I would love to hear feedback, even if it’s just to tell me that I’m a terrible person for killing off Sherlock. (Sorry again.)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
